Ironic Fate
by PoisonMistress
Summary: Sherlock is alone. John is under suspicion of murdering his boyfriend. They meet, and feel an immediate attraction. But with murder hanging over John, and Moriarty's threats over Sherlock, can their relationship survive? Slash. Sherlock/John. AU
1. Chapter 1

**So, my second story! Yet again, this is eventual Slash, so please leave if you dislike that. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters.**

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><p>Bored.<p>

It had been almost a week since that last case.

_Bored._

God, his brain was going to explode.

_Bored._

What was the point of criminals if they took the Easter holidays off? What happened to 'crime never sleeps?'

Sherlock ignored the fact all the blood was rushing to his head, wondering vaguely what Lestrade would call it if he did die from boredom. Probably suicide.

The flat was completely and unbearably silent. Only the very faint hum of traffic from outside breaking the dullness. The light from outside shifted in through the window, giving the otherwise dark room a slightly eerie look. Not that Sherlock cared.

He lay, draped down the chair so his back was on the seat and legs over the top for what felt like a long time, before pushing himself off into a roll and lying on the floor, wondering if there was any improvement.

He _needed_ a case. Preferably sooner rather than later. This was just unbearable.

He considered breaking into the morgue. Or maybe Lestrade's office. But he'd managed to break into both places several weeks ago, and had been extremely disappointed by the lack of challenge.

He crawled up onto the sofa, and stretched out. His body was beginning to protest. Three nights without sleep, and already he was shaky.

The lack of food probably wasn't helping either. But he hadn't been hungry, and it was to much of an effort to go out to the shops.

_What's the point of being a detective if there are no crimes?_ he wondered moodily, during the struggle to keep his mind from shutting down.

And what about Moriarty? He was proving considerably less exciting than he had first hoped. After all, they had parted with Moriarty promising to crush him beyond repair. And yet, rather disappointingly nothing had even had a whiff of Moriarty for months.

So he was just as dull, boring and predictable as everybody else.

_Bored._

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><p>"Christ! Get Mrs. Hudson will you Sally." were the words that woke Sherlock the next morning.<p>

He didn't move, listening the hurried tread of Sgt. Donovan. So, Lestrade was here.

"This better not be a social call." he sneered without opening his eyes.

"Oh. You're not dead then." said Lestrade, the worry in his voice overriding the joke.

"No, rather obviously not."

He cracked an eye open to gaze coldly at the DI, fingertips already buzzing with anticipation. A case had arrived. According the the mantel piece clock, it was midday.

"Yes well... Good," Lestrade leant forward, a sigh breezing through his nose. "You don't look well Sherlock." he said.

"Don't I?"

"Don't play dumb with me. When did you last eat?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, closing them again after a moment. He didn't need anybody mollycoddling him. He was an adult, and perfectly aware of his limits. Food was only required infrequently, and until then there was no need for it.

"A few days ago." he said, with an exaggerated sigh.

"Christ," Lestrade repeated. "I'm not letting you out the house until you eat something." he said.

Sherlock managed to pull himself into a sitting position, trying not to show the slight trembling in his hands.

"I can look after myself." he snarled defensively.

"The evidence would suggest otherwise."

Sherlock had thought of the perfect scathing retort, but he was cut off my Mrs. Hudson, trailed by Sgt. Donovan, entering the room.

"Sherlock dear! What have you done to yourself this time?" she asked anxiously, plopping herself down on the sofa beside him.

"Nothing. Lestrade insists on fussing." Sherlock said, shuffling away from her.

From the interesting promise of a case, his day had now gone horribly astray.

"He hasn't eaten for a 'couple' of days. Do you have any soup or anything?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. I'll go and get some shall I?"

"No, Sally, could you please...?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, I should have come up and checked on the poor dear. But I didn't know..."

"You're not to blame, Mrs. Hudson. His a self-destructive idiot, that's all."

"I know, but all the same. Where would he be without us?"

"I am still here you know," Sherlock snapped irritably, bored of their monologue. "And I don't need anybody, certainly not you two." he added, with a vicious edge to his voice.

Mrs. Hudson just tutted, and Lestrade patted his shoulder, ignoring the way Sherlock shied away from the contact.

They were used to it.

"Tell me about the case." he said, sitting a little more upright, and frowning as his head swam.

"If you promise to-"

"Yes. Yes. Now talk." Sherlock promised, feeling the familiar coiling of excitement.

A case. Finally.

"Fine. I'm not sure how much it will interest you. But I thought..." a stony glare brought Lestrade back onto the right track. "Yes, well. Murder, we think. This morning, about ten. An Adam Winster. Shot through the head. Apparently a cold crime, but we haven't seen any similar around the area."

Sherlock nodded, watching as Sally pressed a tin of soup in Mrs. Hudson's hands, glaring at Sherlock as she did so. He returned her gaze with equal dislike, only to be brought back to Lestrade.

"Number one suspect is his boyfriend. John Watson. Has no alibi, and was the one to find him. Only ten minutes after the death. Apparently he didn't hear anything, even though he was in the room above the murder."

"Seems a fairly simple case. Even you should be able to work it out."

"Well yes. But I don't think Watson has murder in him."

"And on your instincts, you have called me in?" Sherlock scoffed.

"It's that or nothing,"

"Fine. Anything else linking Watson to this crime?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade was right, it was better than nothing. And maybe something would come of it.

"His gun was used. He's ex army, so is probably a good shot. The only real thing in his innocence is the fact it was his boyfriend."

"Of how long?"

"Almost a year and a half."

"Hmm."

It still didn't sound very interesting. But at least he would be able to decide one way or another. And sometimes these cases had potential.

"I'll do it."

Lestrade nodded. Before Sherlock could make his escape however, Mrs. Hudson returned, a mug of soup in her hands. She pushed it into Sherlock's pale spidery ones, lips pursed.

He hesitated for a moment under the stern look of his _landlady, _not_ housekeeper,_ before wrinkling his nose and taking a sip, ignoring the burning of his throat and tongue.

"Have as much as you can keep down. I don't want you chucking up at the crime scene." Lestrade, arms folded as he watched Sherlock.

He managed to drink about an inch of the soup, before feeling his stomach churn uneasily, and being forced to hand the cup back, taking a few breaths.

"You've barely touched it." Mrs. Hudson said, annoyance plastered over her features.

Sherlock was stopped from noting she had just pointed out the obvious by Sergeant Sally Donovan.

"We could take it in a flask. Malnourished people should have lots little and often." she said, her fake worry not fooling Sherlock for a moment.

"I don't-"

"Perfect Sally. Do you have one, Mrs. Hudson?"

And so it was that half an hour later, Sherlock followed Lestrade up to a small flat with the flask of soup under one arm. _Ridiculous_. He was not malnourished for one thing.

Of course the rest of the yard found it highly amusing, despite Lestrade trying to calm them down a little. In Sherlock's opinion he didn't try very hard however. He was sure several took pictures.

Throughout his examination of the hallway Lestrade constantly nagged him to have a bit. He was sure it was more out of revenge than concern.

He was crawling around the floor by the skirting board, flask still pinned under one arm when he became aware of a new presence in the hall. He didn't glance up, hitching the flask higher in his arm, glowering at it as he did so.

"Do you want me to take that?" asked the person from behind him.

He whipped round, meeting the gaze of the newcomer, first with slight curiosity, and then as their eyes met, nervousness. His stomach had clenched, and it wasn't the usual hunger pangs. It was something new.

"Sherlock, this is John Watson." said Lestrade's voice.

But as he stared at John Watson, nobody else existed, only those blue eyes, set in a friendly, kind face.

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><p><strong>There we go! Chapter one, complete. I hope it was enjoyable. Look forward to the next chapter in a couple of days. Reviews would be delightful, some initial thoughts will certainly be helpful!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

The whole thing was a fucking nightmare. From the moment he had watched the blood pool out from Adam's head, and felt himself collapse beside him, whispering nothings.

After that, when he had realised there was no pulse he had called the police, and let what he truly felt out.

Nothing.

He felt nothing at all over the death of his boyfriend. Not guilt. Not sadness. Not really even grief.

Just a sense that the police were slowly focusing more attention on him. He watched them search about, feeling foreboding creep up in his chest.

Nobody had actually secured him yet. But he had the feeling they all thought he'd done it.

They let him stay at the scene, probably to keep and eye on him, but also because Harry hadn't answered her phone, and he couldn't just turn up on her doorstep saying his boyfriend had just been murdered.

And that he was the number one suspect.

It didn't feel like he thought it would. There was nothing inside him. He didn't _care._ Was that bad? Should he be feeling?

He hadn't loved Adam for a long time. Not since _it _started. Heaven knew why he stayed. And in the end it hadn't been a good idea.

__A murderer...__

Not something he thought he would ever be suspected of being. Even in Afghanistan, he had only fired to save another.

So he stood, clothed in what was basically a bin bag, leaning heavily on his crutch, watching the few officers that had been permitted on the scene wander around, occasionally being asked questions. He'd already had a long talk with a detective... Lestrade and his sidekick.

It was impossible to tell if they thought he'd done it.

And it was from where he stood, by a forensic scientist called Anderson, who had been told to 'look after' him, that he saw he tall, pale man step out from a cab, and immediately be joined by DI Lestrade.

He surveyed him curiously, watching the long coat clad man stalk forward, face more emotionless than any of the officers, and flask of something under one arm.

"Who's that?" he asked Anderson.

The forensic scientist glanced in the direction he was looking and growled in an ill-tempered manner.

"That's freak." he said, his voice harsh with no joke in it.

"Who?" asked John, feeling the nickname was not one given through fondness.

"Freak. Or less officially known as Sherlock Holmes," he said, then gave a snort of appreciation. "What's that he's got?"

"A flask." John said, watching Sherlock Holmes walked confidently along the concrete path of his flat, ignoring the sniggers and derisive comments as he passed.

He couldn't help but feel sorry for the man.

"What does he do?"

"Solve crimes. For fun. He doesn't get paid. He just does it as a hobby." Anderson snorted again, and wondered off, leaving John to contemplate the man.

He eventually decided to brave going back into the house, and hesitantly limped over, only to find Holmes in his hallway, crawling along the ground, flask under one arm.

He smiled uncertainly at Lestrade, who returned it, and then continued to watch Holmes. He was constantly fiddling with the flask, and after gathering up his courage he spoke.

"Do you want me to take that?" he asked, glad there was no nervousness in his voice.

Sherlock glanced over at him, expression melting from ice to something very different.

"Sherlock, this is John Watson." said Lestrade, his voice holding the implications which came along with the name.

John gazed back at Sherlock, realising with a jolt how bloody gorgeous his eyes were. And those angular cheekbones certainly had something too.

Sherlock was the first to stir, silently holding the flask out, the tinniest twitch of his lips thanking John.

Lestrade seemed mildly surprised as John took the flask of something hot, and watched Sherlock continue with his shuffling.

There was more silence, and then Sherlock stood up, his gaze straying back to John before snapping away.

"Can I see the body?" he asked.

Lestrade nodded, and the two of them headed into the living room. Sherlock however, paused in the doorway, looking back at him.

"Come." he said imperiously, waiting in the doorway.

"Ah, is that-"

"Hurry up." he snapped, though his eyes kept that thoughtful, slightly afraid look.

John cautiously hobbled after him into the room, glancing at Lestrade for permission. The officer merely sighed and shrugged.

Adam's body was sprawled across the floor in exactly the same position he had left it in. He eyed it, swallowing as he let his eyes stray over the blood.

Sherlock was crouched beside the corpse, looking, but not touching.

"Does it sicken you?" he asked without turning.

John hesitated.

"No." he answered truthfully.

Adam's body was no different to the many he had seen in Afghanistan, and in the surgery. The fact he had been his boyfriend made no difference.

"Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock continued, still staring at the body.

"Afga- how did you know?"

Sherlock snorted softy, but said nothing.

John watched him, even more curiosity in his gaze. Who was this man apparently with mind reading abilities and a strange name?

"You found him here, like this?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah..." John swallowed back the bile.

He hadn't seen violence on quite this level since Afghan. But he was still troubled by the lack of emotion in his heart.

"He was dead?"

"Definitely."

Sherlock cocked his head slightly, and looked back, his gaze making John's stomach somersault.

"Doctor?"

John considered asking how he knew, but didn't bother. Maybe another time, if...

"Yes."

Sherlock nodded, and gingerly lifted up one of the man's hands.

"Have you noticed any unusual people around?" he asked.

"No... Adam did have a new drinking friend, but that's not unusual." John answered, that sending a shiver down his back.

Sherlock was now sniffing the lax face of his ex-partner, a slight frown fixed there.

John knew what he had realised. But Sherlock said nothing, rocking back onto his heels and surveying the dead man.

"I can't tell anything at the moment, Lestrade. I want the phone numbers of _all _family and friends though."

"Sherlock..." Lestrade sighed.

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Fine. Ask Donovan, she's got them."

Sherlock nodded, and strode out of the room. John hurriedly turned his face away from the corpse, Sherlock's slim figure no longer blocking it from sight.

"Shall we go?" Lestrade inquired.

John silently nodded, and they excited into the hall.

"So he...?"

"Helps out, on the tricky cases."

John frowned.

"This is a tricky case?"

Lestrade looked him squarely in the eyes as he answered.

"If he can prove you didn't do it, it's a tricky one." he said calmly.

John nodded dumbly.

"He does it for free?"

"Think of it like a hobby. But full time. How he gets by I don't know." Lestrade shrugged and sighed. "I've never seen him like that before though."

John blinked, the nervousness in his stomach constricting. A nervousness he had not felt since he met Adam, before _it_ started. It had ruined their relationship. Killed all the love on his side at least.

"Like what?"

"Well, he was unusually nice."

John tried not to flush, just smiling slightly.

"Look, give Harry another call. I'll be round later." Lestrade said.

John nodded, dialled Harry's number and after a quick fire conversation, was safe in the knowledge she was coming to pick him up.

"Okay, I'm leaving." he said, limping painfully out of his flat.

His flat which was now a crime scene.

He met Sherlock halfway down his path, standing there impassively. John came to a halt as he drew level, squinting up into that oddly attractive face.

"Flask, if you please." Sherlock said, holding out his hand.

John nodded, and passed it over. Their fingers brushed together for a few long moments, and their eyes met again, before John quickly looked away.

"It isn't mine." Sherlock said, as if that needed clarifying.

"Why have you got it?"

Sherlock's lips drew into a sneer.

"Apparently I need nourishing." he said disdainfully.

John shrugged, and gave a nod.

"Well, bye." he said, not daring to meet Sherlock's eyes again.

Sherlock nodded, and was bounding down to the road before John could even blink, the file of names and address clamped under an arm alongside the flask.

He watched the tall, slim frame of the detective slide into a cab, and as it was whisked from view.

"I'd stay away from him." said Donovan's voice behind him.

He turned slowly round, wincing as his leg throbbed.

"Why?" he asked, instead of saying _who's to say we'll ever meet again._

"He's dangerous. He does this to stop getting bored. And once day, he'll keep himself busy by putting the bodies there in the first place." she responded, no self doubt in her voice.

"I'm a suspected murderer too." John pointed out, though it made him feel queasy.

"Lestrade doesn't think you have murder in you. But Sherlock Holmes does."

John eyed her, before making the painful journey down to the road to wait for Harry. He didn't know if he would see Sherlock again, but he certainly hoped so.

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><p><strong>There! I hope you enjoyed :p I probably won't be able to get the next chapter up until after the weekend, but you have Sherlock's musings to look forward too. Reviews are my writing juice!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock spent the afternoon pacing up and down, over the coffee table, and round the chairs.

It wasn't the case that was puzzling him, not really.

It was John Watson.

What had those feelings in his stomach been? And why, even though he knew what had happened, did he insist on trying to find a way out for John? Prove that he hadn't murdered anybody.

All the evidence led to John, and yet he didn't want to believe John had actually done it.

Why was that? What was stopping him from calling Lestrade that very instant, and saying John had done it?

Was it because John _hadn't_ done it. Or because he didn't want to have to believe John was guilty.

He was afraid it was the latter.

But why? Why was that? There had been something between them. Like a palpable barrier, which just wanted to be pushed and broken. That brief touch over the flask, there had definitely been something there.

Something he'd never felt before.

He had also found it a little more difficult to deduce things about John. Because he spent most of his time looking into his eyes, and not at the important evidence.

He was an ex-army doctor, sent back home two years ago because of a bullet wound to the shoulder. He knew it was Afghanistan. He knew that Adam had been a heavy drinker, for around six months. And that John now worked at a surgery, had a therapist and a psychosomatic limp.

But he hadn't been able to tell from just looking at him whether or not he had murder in him. Because his eyes just seemed too captivating. Orbs of blue he wanted to gaze into, but didn't dare. He couldn't puzzle John out.

__What's happening to me?__

It was slightly frightening, but he knew what it was. He was _attracted_ to John Watson.

He'd never been in his life. Not like this, anyway. There had been some girl at college, but he couldn't remember her name. But as he searched through the rather small folder where he stashed his feelings, he decided that the feeling he had then, and the one he was having now were the same. Only more intense. Along with the fact he had never even considering acting on previous 'feelings'.

He wasn't sure whether to be glad, or annoyed that he had realised what the problem was. Because it was a huge problem, and one he wasn't exactly sure what to do with.

Should he act on these f_eelings'_ or ignore them?

Could he ignored them?

He was safe in the knowledge he could contact John at any time. His number and address were printed beside him on that folder. Not that he'd admit to himself the true reason of taking it.

Because even though he knew the reason... The reason for his feelings. His thoughts. He still didn't want to admit considering something everybody thought impossible.

He didn't want to consider caring.

Why? Because it was impossible.

Or so he had thought for the past thirty years. And now, his whole world was being rocked by a single man. A murder suspect. But he couldn't get John from his thoughts.

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><p>Sherlock spent that day thinking whilst lounging on the sofa, dressing gown draped across his body. The case wasn't a good enough distraction. Not when it was pitted against John, this new and interesting phenomena.<p>

He didn't believe in love at first sight. But, there had been a something there. A something which he couldn't for the life of him describe or catalogue.

Yet it was intriguing, and something he wanted, desperately wanted to follow up.

Which of course meant seeing John again.

But could he? Had there been something on John's part? Would he be affable to meeting the 'freak' of crime scenes again? And even if he were, would he want to take it to the next level?

So many questions, and there was only one way to find out. But it meant taking a risk. A leap of faith.

Something he'd never had a problem with until now.

He had nothing to loose, but the idea of being... rejected made his heart falter.

It was most unsettling.

The afternoon drifted away, with only one distraction coming in the form of Mrs. Hudson, forcing two ham sandwiches down him.

By evening, he'd decided to take on a smallish case, offered to him by an acquaintance. It was homicide, so was fairy promising, and would hopefully offer a distraction from John.

Did he want to be distracted from John?

He snarled into the sofa cushion, rolling onto his back and rubbing his temples.

He had been with John for no more than half an hour, and yet he was obsessed. Fixated. _Ridiculous._

By midnight he had told the acquaintance he would take the case on, and headed into his cold, lonely bedroom. The silence seemed even more oppressive than normal. Stifling him as he lay, refusing point blank to let any thought of John enter his mind.

By the time he drifted to sleep, he'd already given up attempting that.

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><p>The next morning he was up bright and early, slipping out into the brisk morning air before Mrs. Hudson was even awake. He couldn't even stomach the thought of food.<p>

He walked slowly to the establishment of his acquaintance. It was a small café, and a few weeks ago a member of staff had been murdered.

Of course the police had no idea, but Sherlock had agreed to look into it. The main point of interest was that there was no discernible motive.

He waited, stamping his feet against the cold, and watching his breath drift away with dull interest.

John was still a prominent fixture in his mind.

The café owner turned up ten minutes later. Mark, his name was.

"Glad you could make it Sherlock."

"Indeed. There were no DNA traces on the body, or crime scene?"

Mark gritted his teeth while shaking his head.

"Hmm. You have the police report?"

Mark nodded, and handed over a bag.

"All you need?" he asked.

"Yes. But I want to see the crime scene."

"Not much evidence now." Mark replied.

"Nevertheless."

Mark shrugged, and opened the door up, ushering Sherlock through, then led him into the back of the shop.

It was a fairly dreary place. Steel worktops scrubbed to an inch of its life. Tiles, disgustingly clean. All neat, precise and unbearable.

"I said there wasn't much." Mark said, shrugging.

Sherlock shrugged, and looked round. He'd have to check in the police systems for any more similar murders in the area. A serial killer would prove an even better distraction.

The room, apart from being spotless, was small, and quite crowded.

"How many people work here?"

"Three, me, a lady, Annaliese, and poor Tony..." Mark shakes his head.

"And you have an alibi?" Sherlock continued remorselessly.

"Ah, yeah... I was with Anna... Y'know... Tony was supposed to be shutting up shop."

Sherlock nodded, spinning on the spot as he surveyed the room.

"This was four weeks ago, hmm?"

A small nod from Tony.

He ran a finger along the stainless steel worktop, before nodding. Tony was right, it hadn't given him much information. But at least he had an idea of the zone in which the crime had happened.

"Bullet?"

"Yep. Shot through the head. I found him the next morning..."

Sherlock nodded and glanced at the file. It was going to be a long day of reading.

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><p>He was regretting taking the case on. It was fairly obvious, and rather boring to be honest. He spent the morning reading the file, which contained very little useful information. Then had a quick phone chat with a girlfriend, and a parent.<p>

He had solved the thing before lunch.

It was fairly simple, and now only a matter of catching the killer. Something which should prove more interesting.

Tony had been up to his eyeballs in drug related debts. His gormless girlfriend had been in front of him whilst he was high, and his parents were aware of money troubles. It had only been a matter of asking the right questions, and making the right assumptions.

Sherlock was sure it was fairly large dealer, mainly because he had... experience in drug related matters. Only the large traffickers killed people who owed them big time.

It would be interesting to bring down the dealer. He hadn't done it in a while. But now, by lunch time, he was bored. His mind straying back to John.

His phone was resting on the arm rest of his chair, almost screaming at him to dial the already memorised number.

But something was making him hesitate. That ridiculous fear.

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><p><strong>There! Hope you enjoyed (= Now, the next chapter will just have John's thoughts, and then we'll finally get the pair together again. I'd like to thank everybody who has reviewedfavourited/alerted. More reviews would be purely delightful, and with enough encouragement I'll get the next chapter up in a few days :D**


	4. Chapter 4

Harry fussed over him for the rest of the day. He spent most of the first afternoon curled in bed, just thinking.

Thinking about what life would be like without Adam.

Not so bad, he knew that for sure.

Not as bad as it had been.

He lay in the spare bedroom, a cup of cold tea on the table, three blankets gently spread over him. Despite all her faults, Harry had a good heart.

Since the drinking had started, his and Adam's relationship had gone down hill. Adam found it hard to get over his fathers death, and hence the reason for it starting was born. Once he started, he couldn't stop, and he had fallen down the same path as Harry.

The drinking had started a year into an otherwise happy relationship. Even for the first few months of progressively more drinking, John had loved him. But then, the abuse had started.

Shouting at first, when he was drunk. Then the occasional shove.

It had progressed from there, until at least every other week, John would lie on the sofa, feeling a smarting pain, and wondering where his life had gone so wrong.

He hadn't left for two reasons.

He _had _loved Adam, and though that had long since died, he felt a kind of duty. And when he wasn't drunk, his boyfriend was fine, always promising to stop the drink, and always breaking that 'promise' the very same evening.

The drinking 'friends' had been the worst, though they had only entered John's life a few weeks ago. Their little parties would involve going round to the flat, and drinking themselves senseless.

He stayed with Sarah on those nights.

She didn't know about the abuse, just the drinking. And it was easy to fool her. Simply saying he didn't like being around drunk strangers sufficed.

As soon as they got in, he got out.

He had been planning to break it with Adam for a good week. Just a lingering guilt made him feel like he was the one in fault for leaving. But then Adam had died.

So he was free again.

Until the police arrested him.

Sherlock Holmes also played a strong part in his thoughts.

That strangely alluring man. John tried not to think about him too much, but that haunting face stayed with him all afternoon.

Did Sherlock know the truth? Would he think with the police, or attempt to clear his name. Would he even see the detective again?

He hoped so.

If he had been free of all the luggage being murder suspect entailed, he would have asked for Sherlock's number. Though from what both Donovan and Lestrade had said, Sherlock wasn't that sort of person. But it would have been worth a go.

The reason he hadn't tried was mainly the fear that people would think he was trying to suck up to the man who was investigating a crime he was supposed to have committed.

The remainder of the day he just lay still. He had cancelled work, and didn't want to do anything except lie there and feel sorry for himself.

He just couldn't seem to get himself to grieve for Adam.

Harry brought him all sorts of sugar filled snacks and drinks, along with the occasional sympathy calls or gifts. He should have told everybody not to waste their money and time.

That night he drifted away with less difficulty than he thought, no nightmares haunting his sleep for once.

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><p>The next morning he crawled out of bed, pulled on the only spare pair of clothes the police would let him take away from the crime scene, and stumbled downstairs.<p>

"Morning." Harry said with a slightly too bright smile as he plonked himself down on a kitchen chair.

"Hi." he said crisply, tucking into the bowl of cereal Harry handed to him.

She sat herself down opposite him, and watched him critically for a moment, her brown eyes narrowed.

"John, look I know this is going to sound heartless, but I have to go out for lunch. Date. And then I've got the anti-drinking thingy afterwards," she said. "I can cancel them if you-"

"No, that's fine Harry. I was thinking about going to see Sarah anyway... It's her weekend off."

Harry nodded, looking relieved.

"Great, thanks."

He considered asking her to stop acting like he was some kind of heartbroken teen, but decided against it as she hurried out of the room.

A few hours later he was sitting opposite Sarah, a mug of tea in his hands. They had known each other a long time, longer than he had known Adam. In fact, they'd started out romantically, before discovering it didn't work.

She was probably his best and only friend.

"So, how are things?" she asked.

He had informed her that he had been planning to break things off with Adam anyway, so at least he didn't have her fussing over him quite as much as Harry.

"Fine. Seriously. I know I should be feeling... something. But I'm not." John answered.

Sarah pursed her lips, but nodded, smiling slightly.

"And how about the investigation?"

John hesitated.

He wasn't going to lie.

"I don't know... I- I'm the main suspect." he said carefully.

"What? You?"

John shrugged uncomfortably.

"I was in the house when it happened." he said, immensely glad Sarah had not questioned his innocence.

"And you didn't hear anything?"

"No... The doorbell rang half an hour earlier, but I don't know who it was..."

Sarah pressed his hand, the small gesture lifting his heart slightly.

The next few hours were spent happily talking to her. Mainly about Adam. But also about the crime itself, and what the final verdict would be. Hundreds of questions cropped up, but there were answers to very few of them.

It was just before lunch that he got a call.

"Hang on." he said to Sarah, and she nodded, hurrying into the kitchen.

He peered at his phone's screen, taking notice of the 'unknown caller' message with foreboding, and answering.

"Hello. John Watson speaking." he said calmly.

There was a very, very slight pause. A hesitation which several seconds later made sense.

"_It's Sherlock Holmes... I was wondering if you wanted to meet for lunch?" _the baritone voice of the detective said, no perceivable sign in it that he thought he was talking to a murderer.

John also hesitated, taking in the words. Sherlock had asked to meet him?

Though of course that could mean one of two things.

"Er, of course. I'd love to. Where do you want to meet?"

"_I'll be outside 221B Baker Street._" Sherlock answered.

"Great." John replied, before hearing the phone cut off.

* * *

><p><strong>There! A slightly shorter chapter than normal, but a quicker update. I realise I'm staying quite vague about Adam's murder, but the mystery behind it will be reviled in due course. Next chapter... Well I think you can guess. Pretty please review, they make my day twenty six times better :D<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock paced anxiously. He had been waiting almost fifteen minutes, and there was no sign of John. _Has he decided against it?_

He had managed to fool himself into thinking that he had called John because he wanted more facts about the case. But his recently thawed heart knew otherwise.

As he spun for the hundred and thirteenth time, he noted a cab coming to a stop at the end of the street. Sure enough, moments later, John stepped out onto the curb, his gaze immediately landing on Sherlock, and they stared at each other for a moment, before John hurried along the street.

"Hello." Sherlock said, glancing into John's eyes for a moment, before looking away.

"Hi." John replied nervously.

He'd not eaten much. Just been talking to a friend. Female. But had left her suddenly upon getting the call._ Good._

There was a moment of awkward silence, neither looking at the other and shuffling around slightly.

"Ah, shall we head off?" Sherlock asked.

_You're Sherlock Holmes, not some lovesick idiot,_ he told himself firmly.

"Yeah, sure." said John, and their eyes met for a brief moment.

Sherlock hailed a cab, scrambling in and snapping out the address. For the first few moments they sat in silence.

"So, you solve crimes?" John asked finally.

"Yes. Consulting detective." Sherlock replied, pride welling up inside him.

"Consulting detective?"

"The only one in the world. I solve the police's crimes for them."

John shifted slightly, and there was an awkward pause.

"So, how did you know I was in the army?"

Sherlock smirked slightly.

"Your posture, despite the crutch is straight backed. As well as the hair cut, though why you've kept it like that all this time I don't know. The body of your boyfriend didn't seem to bother you, so accustomed to violence. You were even calm enough to check his pulse upon finding him, suggesting medical experience.

"Then you have suffered a shoulder wound. You keep rolling it. And considering you were in the army, we'll say a bullet. And as for your limp, it's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so psychosomatic. I also know about your therapist, and your brother. Does that satisfy you?"

Sherlock glanced over cautiously at John, and returned his gaze steadily.

"That... That's incredible." John said, and Sherlock felt a small smile twitch his lips.

"Really?"

"Yes. Really. But how on earth did you know about Harry?"

"I listened. Lestrade told you to call Harry. Could be a friend, but unlikely, so, brother."

John just grinned at him, and Sherlock felt himself smile slightly in return. The cab pulled to a halt, and Sherlock handed him the money and they stepped onto the street.

"You did get one thing wrong."

Sherlock frowned, running over his deductions.

"What?" he demanded, pausing outside by the door.

"Harry. _She_ is a relation. My sister." John said.

Sherlock snarled under his breath, shoving Angelo's door open and stomping in.

"There's always something!" he muttered, sitting down in his seat.

John was looking cautiously round, mild interest tingeing his gaze. Sherlock quickly pulled his eyes away, and stared fixedly at one of the waiters until he came over.

"Yes sir?" he asked.

Sherlock whipped a menu from the man's hand, and brandished it at John.

"Pick anything." he said shortly.

John hesitated.

"Are you sur-"

"It's free here."

Both the waiter and John stared at him, each looking as bewildered as the other.

"Er, sir, I assure that it is not free here." the waiter stammered.

Sherlock frowned. New staff. What was Angelo thinking? He was however slightly relieved the exuberant man was not around. He didn't need anybody harassing John. Not now. Not at the crucial stage.

He handed a card over to the waiter, and gestured at John.

"Order." he commanded, and a few minutes later the waiter had trotted off, aware that everything was on the house.

He was aware that John was watching him, curious expression and tipped head. At least there was no repulsion in his eyes. No dislike and fear. He gave a small, almost uncertain smile, the expression seeming a little strange on his generally straight lips.

"Sherlock." John said softly, breaking him from his rambling thoughts.

"Hmm, what?" he asked, focusing on John's blue eyes.

The expression in them was ten times greater than any on his face.

"Why are we here?" he asked.

Sherlock pursed his lips. That was the one question he was afraid of. Because his motives were most... unusual, for him anyway.

"The case, I want to know about the case." Sherlock said, closing his eyes briefly when John's face fell.

"Oh... Ask away then." John said, settling back, eyes straying absently round the room.

Sherlock's own eyes grazed over his face, trying to read the emotions hidden there. It was difficult. But for the case, he was going to have to forget all his 'feelings'. He was going to have to focus on the work. Until now that hadn't been a problem.

"You found him, just like that?"

"Yes. I didn't hear a shot, nothing."

"Why were you upstairs?" Sherlock asked quietly, trying not to let his eyes beg John to think of a perfect answer.

__Ignore John. Ignore whatever it is your feeling. Concentrate.__

"Er," that moment of hesitation made his heart sink. "Reading. We... Had an argument earlier."

"About the drinking?"

John grimaced.

"I knew you'd worked it out. Yes, about the drinking. I didn't love him any more. I was sick of- of him and his drinking friends." John answered slowly.

They regarded each other steadily, the flutter in Sherlock's chest making his shuffle around a bit.

"If... If for one moment we assume you didn't do it," he paused, staring into John's eyes. "Then can you think of a motive? Anything that would have Mr. Winster killed?"

This was the crucial moment. If he couldn't find a motive for anybody, then... John was as good as convicted.

"No... You know about the drink. But I'm sure he didn't do drugs or anything like that..."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and took a sharp breath through his nose.

"And these drinking friends. Tell me about them." Sherlock queried.

John chewed his lip, eyes clouding for a moment before blinking Sherlock back into focus.

"I never hung around that much. There was about eight of them, and they were normally the same, with the occasional swap. I never saw them outside of those times."

Sherlock nodded hurriedly leaning back (when did he even get so close?) when John's food arrived.

"Don't you want anything?" John asked suddenly through a mouthful of something.

"No. Slows down my thought." he said, another smile springing to his lips.

"Oh. Right. Why do you need to think?"

"Everybody needs to think John," he said coolly, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But I've got a stakeout tonight."

John's eyes immediately grew even more interested.

"What for?" he asked curiously.

Sherlock tipped his head, his head telling him to say nothing on his mission, but his heart beating fast at the prospect of explaining the case to John.

_Idiot._ he chastised himself, feeling his lips open without his command.

"A case. To catch a murderer." he finally uttered, feeling the compromise was a good one.

John, to his surprise, just grinned. Not that surprises were unpleasant. Just, in this case, unexpected.

"Do you ever have a break?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged.

"I try not to. Being bored is intolerable."

They talked about purely aimless things for the rest of the meal. Something which Sherlock wouldn't normally do. Somehow though, talking about the ridiculous things people usually did was... pleasant with John.

It seemed like an age, and the same time a millisecond before they were standing on the street. Sherlock swallowed down his fear, and turned to John.

"Would you like to come back to my place?" he asked, thankful for the lack of hesitance in his voice.

John broke into a smile, and nodded eagerly.

"This is turning out to be very similar to a date." John commented, eyes betraying his joky voice.

_A date where you talk about exsanguination and suicidal hangings?_ Sherlock thought with a smirk, but he made no comment, the butterflies in him pirouetting.

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><p><strong>Right then, I hope that was okay :p I'm sorry for the similarities in this and ASIP, but I couldn't really help them. Next chapter, the boys get themselves into even more of a mess. And thank you so much if you've reviewed already. If you've got a spare minute, tell me what you think. I really appreciate it.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

John had to admit he'd had a very enjoyable lunch. It was rather surprising, for several reasons. One, he had not thought Sherlock could be so amiable. Two, they had talked about matters which would make any normal person vomit all over the table. And finally the man he'd had such an enjoyable time with was investigating a murder he was thought to have committed.

But then, life would be boring without surprises.

Sherlock had been delightful, to put it frankly. His animated conversation. And the fact he was not afraid to speak out. The conversation hadn't been even remotely similar to his and Adam's on their dates, but that could be the crucial difference. Did they talk about murder and death because they _weren't_ on a date, or was that normal for Sherlock?

John had already tricked himself into thinking Sherlock 'liked' him. Already fooled himself into believing there was something between them. It was stupid, and would only lead to heartbreak. Anybody who knew Sherlock for five seconds would realise he didn't do feelings. And just because they had met up, it didn't mean they were on a date.

But he continued to indulge himself, trying to ignore his fluttering heart, and adoring gaze. He felt guilty for being so smitten so quickly after Adam's unfortunate death, but smitten he well and truly was.

His heart leapt with joy when Sherlock hesitantly, nervously, extended an invitation of visiting his flat. John eagerly seized it, deluding himself into thinking, yet again, it had more significance. They chatted happily, easily on the way to Sherlock's place. 221B Baker Street.

John was pleased that they managed to talk with such ease. He felt like Sherlock had been at his side for years, and that he had been by Sherlock's. When really he knew nothing about the man.

Soon, all too soon as it happened, they were outside the smart door of Sherlock's flat. John couldn't help but smile as the detective led him proudly in.

The place was an absolute tip. There was paper, books, test tubes, a sword, several huge files and a skull cluttering the place. It almost made John's skin crawl. But it didn't quite, because the place was quintessentially Sherlock.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked, looking more at home than John would have thought possible as he swept some newspapers of a sofa, and gestured to it.

"It's... great." John said, eyes roaming over the skull again, and the vague wondering of where it had come from entering his mind.

He sat cautiously on the sofa, and gave Sherlock an sincere smile as he sat opposite him, looking at a bit of a loss.

"Can you tell me any more about the case you've got on tonight?" John asked.

Sherlock looked torn for a moment, then nodded.

"Well, it started when a man was murdered-"

And so, the whole case was laid out before John in all its glory. Despite Sherlock's intermediately spaced remarks of its simplicity and lack of interest, John couldn't see anything remotely boring about it.

And Sherlock's precise deductions made his mouth drop. He attempted to control his doting gaze, but the minute he let his guard down, it was back. Sherlock was in his element, exuberantly describing the smallest details. When it eventually ended, John found himself offering a cautious complement.

"That was incredible." he said slowly, a grin spreading across his face.

"Thank you." Sherlock replied.

There were several beats of silence, in which they gazed at each other.

"Do you mind if I make some tea?" John finally asked, just to stop himself taking that perfect face in his hands, and kissing the even more perfect lips.

"No." Sherlock replied, settling back in his chair and watching John hurry into what he assumed was the kitchen, as it was too messy to really tell at a distance.

It was almost worse than the living room. The table was nigh invisible, and it took John at least a minute to find the kettle. He was doing fairly well until he got to the teabags.

"Er, Sherlock, where do you keep your teabags?" he called into the silent living room.

Sherlock appeared seconds later, and after a quick glance round the kitchen, opened the bread bin, and fished a few stray ones out. He turned almost triumphantly to John, and handed them over.

It was the brushing of fingers that made John freeze, and look up into those pale grey eyes. Just a very slight touch, but it sparked something.

Sherlock was looking down at him, an unfathomable look on his face as their eyes met, fingers still joined, barely.

That moment was longer than the whole day for John. It stretched out, until only Sherlock's gorgeous face existed.

He found himself leaning up towards those tantalising lips, and he was sure Sherlock was moving down...

"Sherlock!" a voice floated from outside, and they leapt apart, John hurriedly turning to the mugs he'd found.

He heard Sherlock give a sort of cough.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, making a hasty retreat from the kitchen.

"I've got a parcel for you, but I didn't want to open it... Not after last time."

John heard the rustle of paper being ripped to pieces.

"Oh, you really could try and keep this place cleaner." the speaker, Mrs. Hudson complained, trailing to a halt when she stepped into the kitchen.

John looked up from the kettle, which didn't appear to be working, and examined the kind, old woman who stood before him.

"Oh, that's John." Sherlock said, staring at a bundle which was neatly rolled in bubble wrap.

"Hello dear." Mrs Hudson said, cocking her head at him.

"Er, hello. John Watson." he said, cordially shaking her hand.

"And for what reason has Sherlock dragged you into his little hell-hole?" she asked, a fond smile accompanying the words.

"Murder suspect. I'm proving him innocent." Sherlock called before John could reply.

"Lovely dear, try and talk some sense into him while you're at it. You wouldn't believe the kind of things he keeps in the fridge. Unhygienic." Mrs. Hudson said, taking her retreat.

But John wasn't listening. He was thinking of Sherlock's words. __I'm proving him innocent.__ Sherlock believed he was innocent? And for the first time in ages, hope occupied his heart.

So far, this amazing man had breathed love and happiness into it too.

He carefully took milk out of the fridge, immediately knowing what Mrs. Hudson was talking about when he spotted the ears.

Finally the tea was ready, and he carried the cups into the sitting room, wordlessly handing one to Sherlock. He gave no verbal reply of thanks either, just a small, slightly nervous smile. Both were careful that their fingers didn't touch.

It was several minutes before their conversation started up again, though John just couldn't get that very nearly kiss out of his head.

Had it just been a spur of the moment thing for Sherlock, or had it been something he actually wanted to do? Would the opportunity ever arise again? John couldn't help but curse Mrs. Hudson for ruining what could have been the start of something...

"John?" Sherlock broke him from his thoughts.

He smiled shyly, trying to read the marble face. But it was carved in stone, with just a hint of kindness, if that was the right word.

They surveyed each other a little warily, the awkwardness from an attempted kiss hanging over them like a cloud.

"How many cases have you actually solved then?" John asked.

The anxiety dissipated from the room like water down the plug. Sherlock sat up, eyes glowing in excitement, and began to talk and talk and talk.

It was obviously one of the things Sherlock enjoyed.

So Sherlock talked, and John listened, absorbing every words with rapt attention, occasionally interrupting the ask a question. He texted Harry at about four o'clock when it was evident he wouldn't be leaving for some time.

The conversation drifted effortlessly from Sherlock's cases, to his life, and then in turn to John's life. Neither of them had much to say.

Sherlock talked about his work, as his work was his life. He made no mention of any family. No mention of friends, or possible romantic relations. The only person he mentioned was Lestrade, and that was only to give some rather nasty comments, which made John smile all the same.

John told him about Harry, Adam and his parents. He also dipped in on the conversation of the war, though he was thankful Sherlock didn't push it. He still had nightmares. And now there was nobody to comfort him through them. Not that there really had been for a long time.

There was no food, but John didn't mind. He was content to listen, even if that meant keeping an empty stomach.

It was quarter past five when Sherlock suddenly jumped to his feet, cutting himself off mid sentence.

"I have to go." he said, already reaching for his coat.

Before John could even utter the words forming on his tongue, Sherlock Holmes was gone.

He sat for several seconds, feeling different emotions bubble up inside him. He felt abandoned more than anything. Had he really been that uninteresting? That Sherlock would just discard him without a second thought?

He climbed slowly to his feet, and limped downstairs. Things had not done quite as well as he'd hoped... Or at least, they had been until Sherlock ran off on him.

He was hailing a cab when he felt a feather light touch on him arm, he looked up to see Sherlock staring down at him, eyes slightly narrowed in thought.

"Want to come?" Sherlock practically purred, his black curls framing his pale, beautiful face.

John only hesitated because he still felt annoyed, and more than a little upset. But he already knew enough about Sherlock was realise this was normal.

The man was a mystery. But his whole personality could be sussed out in mere seconds.

"Could be dangerous." Sherlock offered, the smallest twitching of his lips making him seem a little more human.

John didn't have to say anything. He just grinned, and followed Sherlock down the street again, interest and a healthy dollop of excitement bubbling his chest, alongside the butterflies Sherlock's eyes made swirl.

The darkening sky gave the whole situation a more exciting twist. John stuck as close to Sherlock as he dared, aware that they were quickly moving out of his comfort zone. The streets grew grimmer and dirtier. Eyes watched them through the gloom, even though their owners were barely visible in the darkness.

Finally they came to a halt, Sherlock turning to John, his sheer intensity pushing John up against a lamp post.

"You have to be careful. Do exactly what I tell you to, even if it means abandoning me. This man is dangerous."

John nodded, licking his lips nervously as Sherlock's gaze kept him pinned to the lamp post.

Another twitch of the lips, and Sherlock hesitated for the barest second. Then reached inside his coat, and drew out a pistol. Silently he handed it to John.

The metal felt familiar and comforting in his hands as he turned it over. It was a newer model than his.

"Giving this to a murder suspect?" he questioned, watching Sherlock closely.

The man's expression didn't flicker.

"Not in my eyes." he said quietly, so quietly that a car driving past almost whisked the words away.

John parted his lips to say something, but Sherlock had turned away, one hand stuffed inside his pocket where another weapon was likely concealed.

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><p><strong>Right then. I'm fairly happy with this chapter. I won't be updating until after the weekend though, as I'm going away. Reviews would be unbelievably cool :p<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

It had been a moment of pure inspiration. One of those moments which made him realise exactly why he was a consulting detective.

Why he hadn't thought of it before, Sherlock had no idea. But as he ground to a halt, feeling his whole body almost fall forward with suddenness of his stop, he knew it was the perfect thing to do.

Invite John along.

Well, it seemed close enough to what normal couples did. They went out places. And there wasn't_ very_ much difference between what he and John could do, and what a normal couple would.

He could finish the case, and be with John. Nothing could be better.

For once though, there was a niggling, anxious thought in the back of his head. Or rather, there were several. __What if he says no? What if he gets hurt? What if the murderer doesn't turn up? Is it the right thing to do with your date?__ Would John actually enjoy running round London?

He brushed them aside like feathers, and raced back through the darkening streets to fetch John.

It was a while longer, in which they walked in silence, that they came within a few minute walk of the bar the murderer and drug trafficker was hiding out in. He gave his words of warning to John. And gave him the gun.

There was such question, such hope in John's eyes as he pronounced the six words, which oozed a thousand things. Six words which asked Sherlock if he thought he was a murderer.

And the way his eyes lit up at Sherlock's answer was enough to make the detective want to kiss him there and then.

He turned away, and led John towards the bar, the comforting weight of a loaded pistol in his pocket adding just a touch more confidence to his walk than there would be without one.

The music could be heard ten metres away, and it made him shiver. He'd been in places almost identical to the hell they were about to enter, and he knew what they were like.

It was a comfort to feel John's presence beside him, their arms oh-so nearly touching, but not quite. He couldn't let John interfere with his thoughts any longer though. Absolute concentration was one hundred percent necessary.

But that didn't stop his brain analysing every movement John made.

"Stay with me, okay?" he demanded, shifting just so he could feel the press of a gun against his leg.

John nodded obediently.

"Forget what I said about this being like a date." he said, grinning all the same.

Sherlock frowned. That hadn't been the comment he'd been hoping for.

"Why? What's your definition of a date?" he demanded, wondering where he'd gone wrong.

"A date is where two people go out and have fun." he said, still smiling.

"Isn't that what we're doing?"

There was a happy chuckle from John.

"I should have known catching murderers was your idea of fun." he said.

Sherlock tried not to feel confused over the whole situation.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked anxiously.

John shyly patted his arm, the contact burning up to his shoulder, and down into the bottom of his stomach. It was an electric feeling, and definitely not an unpleasant one.

"Of course not. I'll be... interested to see what happens." he said.

Sherlock nodded, carefully pushing the conversation to the back of his mind for later.

"Stay close." he repeated, and slipped past the bouncers, into the club, John hot on his heels.

The club was just as he expected. Dark with flashing lights which made him flinch, music blaring so loud it was impossible to hear, and the drone of people making things worse. He was jostled around by the flow of people coming in and out of the doorway, and it was only when John gently took his arm and pulled him over to an eddy the he managed to catch his breath.

He mouthed his thanks, and John blushed, hastily removing his hand. Sherlock smiled slightly to himself, turning to survey the seething floor before him.

The whole place made him shudder.

He hated places like this.

He knew the killer was coming here. His sources were never incorrect. It was just a matter of catching the man, without knowing exactly what he looked like.

His 'name' was David Vanhurst. And he was capable of murder.

And so he scoured the room, his hight making this task a little easier, looking for anything he could go on.

But there were too many people, and one in particular had his attention. Unfortunately, he knew this particular man had not murdered anybody. Or at least, not Tony...

Eventually he looked down at his companion, who was watching him with curious eyes.

"Anything?" he asked, though the words were drowned, and only the smooth lips conveyed the message.

He shook his head. There was no real point talking at this distance. He leaned down, so his mouth was brushing John's ear. The man flinched beneath his breath, and the pulse on his neck was actually visible his heart was pounding so hard.

"Let's get a drink, and watch the door." Sherlock whispered, letting his mouth hover by John's ear a second longer than was really necessary.

He then waded his way through the crowd, John still by his side, and sticking to it like a limpet.

He ordered drinks. Nothing exciting, or dangerous. Just half a pint of beer for John, and some tap water for himself.

Then they found a place of calm in the tempest of humanity, and stood, Sherlock playing with his phone, and John watching the crowd, standing a little closer than normal society would approve of. Sherlock approved whole heartedly however.

"How will we recognise him?" John asked finally.

"He's short. Your height. About thirty. Black haired, and he will be wearing a heavy brown coat." Sherlock said.

That was all he had managed to gather from his source, and his own deductions.

John opened his mouth. Closed it again and shrugged.

After few minutes, his mouth twitched, and he looked over to Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow.

"What?" he asked over the steadily increasing din of awful music.

"Well... This will certainly be something to tell grandchildren." John answered.

__Not if you stay in contact with me.__

"Why?" he said instead.

It was normal for him. Though he knew other people considered standing in a club, waiting for a murderer with guns in your pocket a little strange. But then 'other people' were dull.

"I never thought I'd be looking for a murderer. I never even thought I'd even be trying to catch one."

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, and met John's warm eyes for a brief second, before looking back out across the crowd.

It was half an hour later than John spoke again.

"What can you tell me about that man over there?" he asked.

Sherlock scoured the crowd, following John's gaze.

"The one with the stupid shirt?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock took a moment to considering the individual in question.

"He's only just got here. It's his first night in England, and he only had time to drop his luggage of at a hotel, before meeting somebody, probably his sister. Comes from Italy, maybe France, but can speak fairly good English. His wife ran away from him, and he couldn't bare to live in the house, so came for a break."

John nodded slowly, an almost childish glee making his face light up.

"Now tell me how you did that." he demanded eagerly.

"It's easy to tell he's from France or Italy by his complexion, and the fact he is talking to somebody who is obviously a stranger and who obviously likes him, proves he can speak English. It also shows he loves somebody. No ring on his finger, but there is one on a chain round his neck.. He got here today, and came here in a rush are proved by the fact he's got some stubble growing.

"He hasn't had time to shave, but has to drop his luggage off. Came here in a taxi, which adds to the evidence he doesn't live here, and shows he did dump his luggage. I know he came in a taxi because when he came in, he was tucking money into his pocket. The sister? He would have found the time if he was meeting a love interest to clean up, but he's still smart. It's unlikely he'd meet a parent here, and he keeps fiddling with a watch, probably a recent gift from said sister. Could be a brother, but by the style of his watch, I'd say not." Sherlock reeled off quickly.

John swallowed, one of _those_ smiles stretching his lips.

"Amazing." he said, and the compliment was heartfelt.

Sherlock continued to entertain John by deducing several other people. It was fifteen long minutes later that Sherlock felt himself stiffen, and his eyes fix on an individual.

A murderer.

"There!" he hissed, nudging John in the ribs.

They both detached themselves from the wall they had been leaning against, and softly followed the brown coat clad man out the door.

It was cold outside, a bitter nip making them lean into each other for warmth. Of course if was warmth, nothing to do with the fact Sherlock had been dying to touch John all evening.

The man strode purposefully on, not glancing back once. Cars eased past, but he didn't hail any cabs. He just walked. And they followed.

It was probably the least interesting chase Sherlock had ever been in, but it seemed to be pleasing John.

Sherlock had no idea how long they followed the killer for, only that eventually he turned into an ally, and Sherlock came to a halt, waiting several seconds, before glancing at John.

"Shh." was all he said, stepping softly after their man.

The ally was deserted, forking off into two dirty roads. Sherlock didn't hesitate in point John down the left hand one, and slipping quietly down the right.

He pulled the gun from his pocket, and kept his ears pricked.

Of course, he didn't hear the soft tread of footsteps behind him.

But he certainly felt the rope being pulled tight around his throat. He felt his scream cut of short as all the air was squeezed from him. He struggled. Thrashed wildly.

And all the while that rope was growing tighter.

He could feel the brute behind him. Feel the seconds slipping away. The gun dropped helplessly from his hands with a dull clatter, and he felt his lungs give out, black spots appearing before his eyes. He tried to call for help, but it came out as a groan, wasting the last of his air.

This was it. Because of his stupidity, he was dying. And John would probably follow him. Funny... Normally he wouldn't think of anybody if he were dying, and yet now... John was on his mind. He vaguely wished with an oxygen depleted brain that he wished he could have kissed John before the end.

That was when a single, deadly shot rang out, and the constricting rope round his neck went loose, and he fell heavily to the floor, feeling something wet crawling across his face, and down his bruised neck. He could hear his choking breath for several seconds, but after that, there was nothing except pitch blackness.

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><p><strong>Okay then. I hope you like that nice big cliffhanger :p I'm normally a sucker for them, so I'm surprised this is the first major one! Your thoughts on how things are progressing thus far would be brilliant. If something isn't right, I'd like to know so I can try and fix it. <strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Story alert is all kaput, so sorry if you've been sent the email a million times, or not at all.**

* * *

><p>John inched slowly down the ally Sherlock had directed him down. He didn't like leaving the detective's side. It felt stupidly risky to be walking down a dark street on your own, and letting your only companion go down the other.<p>

John stopped short, before swiftly turning and hurrying back up the street. He didn't like it. His instinct was buzzing like a swarm of wasps.

He peered down the street Sherlock had galloped down.

It was a second or so later that he caught a faint clatter about twenty paces away. _Sherlock._

He started down the gloomy passage, trying to keep his breath and footsteps quiet. Several steps later, could make out a figure. A large outline, which as he came closer, quickly became two men struggling. A short one was holding something to the tall one's throat.

He severely regretted what he did next. It was incredibly stupid. The only this that was on his side was the fact Sherlock was being strangled to death, and it wouldn't be long before he was dead.

Even so, his decision, however reckless, had been thought through and picked in a split second.

With almost scary calmness he raised the gun Sherlock had presented him with, and fired.

Sherlock's attacker slumped down, and Sherlock collapsed beside him. Both were unmoving. Both were nothing except dark lumps in the blackness.

John didn't drop his gun as he rushed over, skidding down onto his knees and feeling them graze and scrap across the uneven ground.

He ignored the deathly still murderer, and carefully rolled Sherlock onto his back. The detective was unconscious, his breath hitching and catching almost painfully. The marks round his throat were visible even in the dim light. To his horror, John noted the blood trickling across Sherlock's face.

Casting a glance to the man he'd just shot, praying that he hadn't had a gun, he stripped Sherlock's coat off. Under his thin shirt, the source was easily visible. A nick on his shoulder where a bullet had obviously caught him.

John carefully rolled the insane man back into a lying position, propping up his head with his coat. The scratch was nothing more than that. A scratch.

Reluctantly, John turned to the assailant. A few moments fumbling round, he found the man's neck, and felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

He had just killed a man. To save another he'd barely known half a day.

_Not good._

In the gloom, it was impossible to see much. So he eased himself back over to Sherlock, sitting in the dark and listening to the crackling breath, each pause sending a shiver down his throat.

He tried to keep calm by cleaning the blood away from the nick, and examining it with squinting eyes. If he had to guess, he'd said that his bullet... the one that had killed the man, had gone straight through him, and also hit his friend.

If anything, that made things very much worse.

And what the hell was Sherlock going to think when he woke up? His suspicions that John was a cold blooded killer would be confirmed.

That made John's heart falter. And suddenly he felt all the guilt and fear of the past few days rising up.

Instead of lamenting a man's death, he was worried about what Sherlock would think. And it was the same with Adam.

These tormenting thoughts crashed round and round his mind, his eyes gazing unseeingly at Sherlock. Adam hadn't been his fault. But he could at least feel slightly sad that his boyfriend was dead. But those feelings of grief, of heart wrenching sorrow, were not there.

And then, this next victim. A victim who had actually died at his hand...

What scared him was not the fact he'd killed him.

It was the fact he hadn't hesitated in doing so.

Already to protect Sherlock, he would break to law, and risk a life in prison. His one consolation was that Sherlock was alive, thanks to his bullet.

But this spark of content soon burnt out in the face of everything else crashing down on him like water.

He didn't know how long he sat there. If anybody had asked him, he would have to say he had absolutely no clue, because he didn't.

All he did know was that he sat in the dark for what seemed an endless amount of time, gloomy thoughts swirling round his head.

His eyes snapped back into focus when Sherlock cracked an eye open, and stared up at him, the grey orb shimmering slightly through the gloom.

He'd done no groaning and writhing, just opened one eye. Typical.

"John?" he croaked, his throat apparently constricting over the last letter.

John wasn't exactly sure how to answer. The word had been uttered almost like a plea for help.

He ended up taking a slim hand between his own, unconsciously rubbing it when he felt the coldness seeping into his own skin.

"I'm here." he said, wincing at the cheesy line.

Sherlock too apparently found it cheesy, as he smirked and winced at the same time.

"You saved me." he breathed regarding John with steady, calm eyes.

"Yes."

"Shot him?"

"Yes."

Sherlock hesitated for the briefest moment. A moment which made John cringe.

"Is he dead?"

John closed his eyes.

"Yes." he whispered.

He opened his eyes, just in time to catch the expression on Sherlock's face.

It was tortured. His eyes were sad and afraid, and his forehead creased in thought, while his previously loose grip on John's hand tightened.

The silence was almost unbearable.

"Good shot." Sherlock said, meeting John's eyes, and giving the smallest smile.

John let out a breath, and tentatively smiled back.

"I trust you are unhurt?" Sherlock inquired, for all the world as if he was asking about the weather.

Not at all as if there was a corpse beside them, killed by the man who was currently holding his hand.

"Yes. You should be fine too. The bruising will get worse, and try not to wear any tight ties or scarves. And the bullet nicked your shoulder. I'd get some antiseptic on that, but it won't need stitches." John said, doctor mode saving him from falling into a panic.

Sherlock nodded shortly, evidently regretting it as he winced. John stole a glance at the body, a shudder running down his spine and back up again.

"What shall we do...?"

Sherlock gave the corpse a disinterested glance.

"Leave it. I'll get Lestrade off your track." Sherlock said, while using his grip on John's hand to pull himself up into a sitting position.

There was a moment of silence while John crouched beside him.

It was really quite ridiculous. Two men sitting in an ally, with a corpse. Like the start of an awful joke.

Sherlock queasily stood, and John, after a glance he couldn't help at the dead man, got to his own two feet.

"Sherlock... Thank you." he said quietly.

The detective looked at him intently, then hesitantly patted his arm. The touch was feather light, but the continued eye contact seemed to make it more significant.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, grey eyes boring into John's.

If he looked hard, he could just see the remnants of uncertainty in their depths.

They stumbled, Sherlock leaning heavily on John's shoulder, out of the ally way, onto the street.

"We'll never get a cab." John muttered to himself, conscious that Harry would be waiting for him.

But then again, he could hardly leave Sherlock.

"I can manage." Sherlock said, somehow managing to stand upright without using John as a walking stick.

Apparently he had just read John's mind, along with all the insecurities and fears written there.

"Don't be an idiot. I'll help you back." John replied, looping his arm through Sherlock's and allowing the taller man to lean on him again.

They made a sorry pair as they stumbled down the street.

Using a short break under a street lamp, John sent Harry a text saying he wouldn't be back until late.

Throughout the whole journey, they shot each other glances. Sherlock's were not tinged with the repulsion John had been looking for. Rather interest and a little uncertainty.

John was just relieved that Sherlock hadn't shoved him away and branded him a murderer.

In fact, he'd done the complete opposite. He had promised to save him from the law.

Outside 221B, Sherlock insisted that John came up, though really there was little choice in the matter. It was dubious whether Sherlock would make it up. Once in the snug room, Sherlock took John's gun from him, and hid it along with his own in a draw.

There was a moment of silence.

"I'd better be go-"

"No, you might as well stay. You said something about antiseptic?"

So with that invitation, John put the kettle on, and rifled through a severely depleted first aid bag. He eventually found an almost empty bottle, and instructed Sherlock to sit down.

The man plonked himself down on the kitchen table.

"It might sting a little." he warned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I don't think it will be very noticeable compared to being strangled." he said with a huff.

John shrugged, pouring a liberal amount onto a cloth, and pressing it to the wound.

Sherlock didn't even hiss, continuing to follow John's every movement with his eyes.

Once John was satisfied that the wound was clean, he glanced up at Sherlock. With the man sitting on the table, they were almost equal in hight.

His eyes seemed to draw John in, making him freeze. They stared at each other, the tension rising around them.

John knew he should move away before things got awkward, but his brain wasn't functioning properly.

So instead of going to pour out a couple of mugs of tea, he found himself leaning in, closing his eyes as his lips met Sherlock's.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm sorry I've left you on yet another cliffhanger! :D I hope you enjoyed, but if you noticed any medical untruths, I'm sorry, but I know virtually nothing. I might get the next chapter up by Saturday (reviews would definitely help) so keep your eyes open.<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock tried to keep a calm outer exterior, but he knew he was fighting a loosing battle. His fuzzy head and aching body wasn't helping, along with John's close proximity.

John, of course was the source of his internal terror.

Lestrade had said he didn't have murder in him. Well John had proved he did. Most definitely.

Not that that was really what was bothering him... After all, he himself had killed. And John had saved his life, a service he would never forget. But this made the Adam case a lot more complicated.

Well... Only if Lestrade found out.

And he wasn't going to.

Even if John had killed Adam, which seemed suddenly a lot more likely, Sherlock didn't find himself minding that much. His time was spent looking for murderers. He was one himself, though he had only ever killed in self defence. And if nobody found out, John could live in peace, and Sherlock knew his conscience wouldn't be troubled in the slightest.

But niggling worries still gnawed at him.

John seemed just as frightened, clinging to him almost as much as he was to him as they staggered down the street. Sherlock was just looking forward to stepping into cool atmosphere of 221B, and trying to figure everything out.

His feelings. John, and his slightly murderous ways. Everything.

And finally, they did Sherlock shakily pushing the key into the lock, and together they staggered up the stairs, probably waking the whole establishment.

Now of all times, Sherlock didn't care.

Soon Sherlock found himself sitting on the table, John dabbing antiseptic on the graze the bullet had caused. He was only really half aware of the sensation, which was a slight stinging. Even the fact John was close couldn't pull his mind away from tearing itself apart as he tried to work everything out. The best summery he could think of was;

_This is bad._

He looked down to find John had stopped, and was watching him. He stared into the warm blue eyes, the butterflies in his stomach rising and making him feel slightly ill.

And then John kissed him.

It was something quite unexpected. Though maybe his mind was lagging behind because of his recent encounter.

He had guessed that maybe John 'liked' him. But enough? And so soon after his previous boyfriend's death... He hadn't thought John would be the one to initiate anything anyway.

John's lips were warm and soft, though a little cracked. He wasn't exactly sure how to react, so he made a mistake, and hesitated for a few seconds.

John pulled away, a gasp rushing from his mouth as he appeared to realise what he had just done.

"I'm so sorry!" he whispered.

Sherlock watched him. Watched those blue eyes widen. He was finding it very hard to think, and found a light finger tracing his lips, almost dreamily.

"I didn't mea-"

"No." Sherlock said quietly.

John stopped, hope now glinting in his eyes, though still submerged by fear.

Neither of them spoke for several long, horribly long, moments. Then Sherlock slowly rose to his to feet, keeping his eyes fixed on John's eyes.

Swallowing all his lingering doubts, he stepped forward, glad there was no tremor in his step, and gazed down at John, waiting.

John seemed transfixed by his presence, and after a few seconds slipped by, and he made no move, Sherlock gathered up the final dregs on is courage and took his hand. It was warm, calloused and gorgeously _John._

Silence still reigned, but Sherlock didn't need words to see what was going through John's mind. He could see it all in his eyes.

So without allowing himself a moment more hesitation, he leaned down, and pressed his lips to John's.

He let the new sensation surround him, feeling John cautiously respond. It was... perfect.

He'd never kissed. Of course he knew the mechanics, but until recently he hadn't cared, leaving the information stuffed in the back of his mind. Suddenly he hoped the source was reliable. The fear that John would dislike the kiss was almost overwhelming.

John, now he was over the shock, was taking over. Hands curled round Sherlock's neck, and he found himself pressed closely against the man who had somehow managed to ensnare his mind.

He could actually feel the tattoo of John's heart against his chest. It was somehow comforting.

The kiss somehow felt right. Familiar almost. But at the same time, new and exciting. Sherlock's senses were alive. His skin was buzzing, and his blood fizzing. He could smell John's shampoo, and taste beer. The feel of John's steady, gentle lips against his was the most overwhelming.

Finally John pulled away, and they both silently surveyed each other.

The moment stretched on much longer than necessary. And then, John coughed slightly, eyes continuing to seek reassurance from Sherlock's.

"Sorry." he said again, a hesitant smile twitching his lips.

And Sherlock now knew exactly what they felt like.

"I- er..." Sherlock stumbled, a prick of unease stabbing at his heart.

How on earth was he supposed to make his feelings clear? They had never, ever been his strong point. Ask him to deduce. Ask him to shoot a gun. Ask him to anything except explain how he felt.

"Look, Sherlock. I don't want to er... rush you. So maybe I'll just... go, let you think?" John said, twisting his hands together.

Sherlock just stared at him, clenching his own hands into balls as he tried to keep his mind of the scene in hand.

"I'll see you tomorrow, 'kay?" John said, a little more slowly.

"John, no, wait!" Sherlock said, but John was already out of the room, though maybe he had been gone for several minutes.

His mind was cloaked in fog.

He frowned at the doorway, heart fluttering. Then he let himself drop onto the sofa, taking a fistful of a cushion and squeezing it to death.

That hadn't quite gone to plan.

"Why did you mess it up?" he whispered to himself, gnawing on his lip until he felt the tang of blood mixing with his saliva.

Swallowing the thick mix with a grimace, he curled into a more comfortable position, and stared across the room. Why had John wanted to leave? Was it because he didn't want _it._ Or was he genuinely concerned?

He wouldn't find out until morning, but he knew he wouldn't get a wink of sleep.

Sherlock allowed a small smirk as he took his violin up. _Nobody else will either._

* * *

><p><strong>Right then. That chapter was the first I've had any real trouble on, so I hope it turned out okay! In a few chapters, the real plot will enter the scene, so don't think this is over yet :p I seriously can't thank everybody who reviewed enough, they motivate me to write!<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

John had waited for a slightly dazed Sherlock to answer, but when none of forthcoming, he decided to make a hasty retreat.

His own mind was reeling.

He had just kissed Sherlock Holmes.

In fact, scratch that.

Sherlock Holmes had just kissed him back.

As soon as he was standing on Baker Street itself, he hesitated, glancing up at the window he knew looked in on Sherlock's living room.

He wanted to give Sherlock space. Let him think. But at the same time, he didn't want Sherlock thinking he was running away.

The two conflicts battled for a moment, and then John stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi.

He was sure Sherlock had never done anything remotely romantic. The kiss had contained that element of newness which told him Sherlock had never kissed anybody before.

A slightly scary thought. Why had Sherlock picked him of all people?

Or had he? It could have been an experiment. A flight of fancy. It could have meant nothing.

But John somehow thought not. Sherlock had been almost fearful, or at least cautious, as if worried he was making the wrong move.

John climbed into a taxi, nestling into the grimy seats and watching a dark London trundle by. Harry would probably be worried by now, but he felt that his evening hadn't been totally wasted.

Well, it had been interesting.

He'd kissed the world's only consulting detective, and shot a murderer.

Despite the euphoria of the kiss, the fact his name now described a murderer was something which made him shiver.

The only thing that comforted him was that Sherlock didn't seem to hate him for it.

Everything was so complicated all of a sudden. And maybe if he had the intelligence of Sherlock, he could have figured it all out. But unfortunately, the thousand conflicting ideas, feelings and thoughts charged round his head, and he was unable to rein them in.

The two murders, that of Adam, and that of the drug dealer, were similar and yet completely different. Apart from the fact he didn't feel he _should_ cry over the drug dealer, his feelings were similar. But the circumstances were different. And Sherlock added a twist the the whole situation.

Sherlock, who had promised to protect him. Did that make Sherlock as bad as himself? Should he offer himself up?

The thought only briefly passed through his head. He didn't want to go to prison. Not when things were beginning to look brighter. He'd found somebody. Harry was almost off her alcohol. So apart from two deaths, both of which could be blamed on him, he was happy.

Finally the taxi arrived outside Harry's small flat, and the cabbie impatiently tapped the glass when John failed to move.

He clumsily climbed out out, paid the fare, and hurried up to the house, pulling the key Harry had presented him with when she picked him up from the crime scene.

God, that seemed ages ago.

How had so much happened since then?

He rammed the metal into the lock, somehow feeling a little better at the nasty scraping noise it made. He stepped inside, only to find the hall light was on.

Obviously Harry had waited up for him. So he softly made his way to the kitchen, which was also illuminated. Harry was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a magazine of some description.

She looked up at him when a the floor creaked, and he was greeted with a scowl.

"Where the heck have you been?" she demanded.

"Out." John said cautiously.

"You've been 'out' hours." Harry snapped, stilling glaring from her seat.

"Sorry." John said, aware there was the smallest hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Harry's look softened slightly.

"So what were you doing?" she asked again.

_I was shooting drug dealers, and kissing detectives._

"I was having lunch with a man who's trying to prove me innocent. But it stretched on at his place." he said.

Harry winced, but said nothing, merely nodding.

"I'm going to turn in then." John said, giving a forced smile and walking away before Harry could reply.

He could see the worry in her eyes. Her little brother was probably going to be accused of murder. And he knew that suspicions would be going through her head. How could she _not_ think John had killed Adam when the police believed so.

* * *

><p>He was woken by his sister roughly shaking him awake, an anxious frown on her face. Nobody else could look annoyed and worried at the same time.<p>

"There's somebody to see you John." she said as John mumbled for her to go away.

It took five minutes for John to actually be awake enough to have the sentence register.

"Who?" he asked finally.

"I don't know. I haven't let him in. I think it might be the police." she replied.

"This person didn't say if he was with the police?"

"Nope. Rude bugger he was. Just told me to fetch you."

In John's experience, however limited, the police force were not prone to being describe as 'rude buggers'. That gave him a twinge of hope it wasn't somebody coming to arrest him.

"Fine, give me a minute."

Harry left the room while he dressed, and he glanced at the clock, finding it was obscenely early. Six thirty if you wanted to be precise.

That however, took away his smidgeon of hope. Who else called that early?

Maybe Sherlock had caved in and told Lestrade he'd killed somebody. Or maybe they'd figured it out for themselves. Or maybe some evidence over Adam's case had come to light. Or-

He brought his increasingly fearful thoughts to a stop, and pulled on a jumper, hurrying out into the hall where Harry was waiting.

"I'll leave you to it." she said, slowly moving into the living room with a worried glance.

John drew a deep breath, smoothed down his wild hair, and stepped over to the door, wrenching it open.

The tall man who had been leaning against the porch gave a small twitch of the lips.

He looked surprisingly ill at ease, righting himself to a standing position and chewing on slightly red lips.

"I couldn't stand it any more. I thought maybe..." Sherlock trailed off with a shrug, light eyes watching John closely.

John smiled, feeling a touch of happiness in the stretching in his lips which seemed to becoming more and more frequent when Sherlock was around.

He stepped outside, shutting the door. That seemed to calm Sherlock a little, and he absently scuffed his foot against the step, waiting for John to speak.

"I'm sorry for leaving last night." John said.

Sherlock nodded.

"I understand that you needed to think." he said.

John offered a tentative smile, watching the man closely. There were many barely concealed emotions in his eyes as he met John's gaze.

"John, I need..." he trailed off, lips twisting.

Several seconds elapsed, and he didn't continue.

"You need..?" John prompted.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. It can wait. I should probably leave you alone. I just had to... Check." he said.

John knew he should do something, but just looking at Sherlock's marble, frankly gorgeous, face made him wonder if he could ever be on his level.

_Better find out now rather then later._ He thought, and took Sherlock's limp hand in his, leaning up.

Sherlock bent, and their lips met halfway. He could taste the relief in Sherlock's lips. Feel the free-flying joy and smell the dispelled fear.

It was Sherlock this time that pulled him close, almost closer than he thought possible. He smiled slightly as strong arms wound round his upper back in a comforting embrace.

He felt safer than he'd ever felt before with Sherlock wound round him. And this was the man, only yesterday, he had been wishing for, but knowing - or at least thinking he knew - Sherlock would never enter anything as dangerous as a relationship.

It was Sherlock that finally, reluctantly pulled away. He gazed down at John, eyes still confused and unsure.

"I have to go." he said, pulling John closer instead.

"You don't to come in have some breakfast?" John asked hopefully.

"No." Sherlock said, peeling himself away with a sigh.

John watched him turn and walk swiftly back down the path.

"Come to Baker Street at lunch time." Sherlock called without turning, stepping onto the road and hailing a cab.

John watched him climb in, and raised his hand in answer to the small wave Sherlock sent his way.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you so so much everybody who reviewed! I found all your lovely comments extremely buoying, and encouraged me to write that. I hope to be showing you the next chapter soon.<strong>

**On another note, I've had an idea for another fic. Any interest?**


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock sat in the back of a cab, swiping his phone out from his pocket. He'd felt it buzz whilst kissing John, and however interesting that was, he had things to do and people to deduce.

And he knew exactly where Lestrade would be telling him to go. Lestrade had finally realised that texting was the only way to get an answer from the consulting detective.

Sure enough, the text read just as he had thought would.

_Sherlock, man found in ally. Shot. No clues. Address Sentinal Road. Lestrade._

A typical plea for help, and one that normally Sherlock wouldn't pay any attention to, but today he was going to surprise everybody.

Twice.

He sent an answering text, warning Lestrade not to mess with the evidence.

Not that he needed any evidence to know who the murderer was.

Sherlock knew his feelings were still twisted. He was going through something he'd never had to face. And of course, it was even more complicated than the average person's 'attachment'.

He now knew John was a murderer, though with himself as a witness, he knew the shot had been fired to stop his own murder. But that didn't change the fact John had killed somebody. But Adam was another matter.

Whether John had done it or not, Sherlock knew it wouldn't change his feelings. But he needed to know what had actually happened.

The problem was, John would likely lie if he had done it. Maybe not so much out of distrust, but from the worry Sherlock would shun him. A completely ridiculous fear, naturally, but one of the ones that often clouded people's judgement.

Finally the cab pulled up outside the entrance of the dingy alleyway called Sentinal Road. It was plastered in crime scene tap, and officers milled around outside. He could see Sally Donovan, and frowned as he paid the cabbie.

He carefully climbed out, and strode over to her, pursing his lips.

"Donovan." he snapped as he drew near.

All he had to do was act normally. It wouldn't be a problem.

"Oh, freak. I didn't think you'd bother yourself with such a measly crime." she replied in equally hostile tones.

"Measly to your untrained eyes, but not to mine." he sniffed.

Sally scowled.

"You haven't even see the body yet."

"I don't need to."

"Let me guess, you've 'deduced' who the murderer is then, have you?"

_Actually, yes._

He didn't answer, striding away and ducking under the tape, ignoring Sally's call for him to stop. Lestrade met him at the fork of the two roads, a mildly surprised expression on his face.

"I didn't think you'd bother with this." he said, casting a curious eye over Sherlock's face.

"I've already been informed." Sherlock said curtly.

Lestrade shrugged, and led him over to the body. It was exactly as he as John had left it the night before.

The body was on its back, blood spilling out the David Vanhurst's chest. It looked worse in the light of day. Of course it did. He could see the expression now. The blood. Without meaning to he fingered his neck, just stopping himself from wincing as he touched a tender bruise.

He could see the rope in the man's hand. And bending down to examine his would-be murder weapon, he found traces of blood.

"It seems he was trying to strangle somebody." Lestrade supplied.

"So whoever shot him did it self defence?"

"No. The shot was fired from behind, at least five metres."

Sherlock nodded, turning back.

"Name?" he demanded, for appearances.

"Well, we found a ID card with the name of David Vanhurst, but it could be fake."

"Naturally."

Silence for a moment, the Sherlock examined the man's fingers with absent interest. It was a strange change. Normally he was trying to solve the puzzle a murder supplied. Now he was trying to save the man who was guilty.

Ten minutes of aimless questions and pointless pretending, he stood.

"Well?" Lestrade asked expectantly.

"He must have attacked somebody, maybe for money. And a friend killed him, possibly by accident, and they fled in fear of being prosecuted." Sherlock said easily.

Near enough to the truth to be believable.

"And this friend just so happened to have a gun?"

"Maybe it dropped out of Vanhurst's pocket." Sherlock suggested easily.

Lestrade didn't seem entirely convinced.

"So, how do we catch the murderer?"

"I doubt you'll find them now." Sherlock said, pulling his coat tighter around his chest, and preparing to make his leave.

"What? You're just going to leave?" Lestrade demanded.

"Why should I stay?"

"Well, aren't you going to give me more details about this murderer? I've got to find him."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed.

"It could have been anybody. Don't expect me to waste my time looking for somebody who accidentally shot somebody else." he sniffed.

Lestrade was scowling now, arms crossed.

"Loosing your touch, Sherlock?" he asked, knowing it would likely hit a nerve.

Sherlock pulled his lips into a sneer, and stalked off.

Moments later Lestrade was back at his side.

"Have you had any luck with Watson's case?" he asked.

Sherlock paused, heart rate quickening.

"No." he said.

"But do you think he did it?"

_Probably, yes._

"Yes, no, maybe. Give me more time Lestrade and I'll bring you a murderer."

Lestrade frowned oh so slightly, still keeping step with him.

"Have you talked to him? John, I mean."

Sherlock considered all the possible answers to that question.

_Yes, and I found myself liking him immensely._

_I have, and ended up snogging him a few times._

_We talked, then we kissed._

But the problem with those answers was that they suggested (quite explicitly in the second and third) that he 'liked' John. And he wasn't sure how he felt about the general public, Lestrade included, knowing. Some people would mock him. Others, well two, would be pleased. The rest wouldn't think he'd hold onto the focus of his attention for more than a day.

So instead of telling Lestrade everything, he went for the simple answer.

"Yes, briefly."

On top of his own personal worries, John might be opposed to it being known he had kissed somebody so soon after his boyfriend had been shot.

"Oh, and what did you think?"

"I can't see how he didn't do it," he said bluntly, and Lestrade grimaced. "But I do agree with you."

Lestrade chuckled slightly.

"Well that's a first."

Sherlock felt a tiny smirk spring up, and stopped on the curb.

"Text me if you get any _interesting _cases." he said.

A sigh and a nod rolled into one was the answer, and Sherlock hailed a cab.

* * *

><p><strong>For the record, I made Sentinal Road up. Now, I'm sorry for the delay, but things were a bit hectic over the weekend. <strong>

**In regards to my new fic, to remove some of the confusion, I give you these facts; It's another AU, with a dark plot. I shall be posting the first chapter very soon, and the first line is - _The first time John saw him, he was walking calmly through the weapon room._ Make your deductions :p**


	12. Chapter 12

It was midday. A typically nippy spring afternoon. John stood outside Baker Street, hesitating. It somehow felt silly to be taking Sherlock up on an invitation that had been uttered in a moment of haste. He didn't want to impose. And Sherlock certainly didn't seem the type to like being disturbed.

The ex-army doctor sighed. He barely knew Sherlock. He didn't know anything about his personal life. And yet he had hopes of turning something that wasn't even close to a relationship, into one.

Though he knew lingering on the doorstep, looking like a bit of an idiot wasn't going to help, it didn't stop him. The wooden door looked foreboding all of a suddenly. Certainly it was completely different to when he had helped a half strangled detective through it.

He was just on that point where it could have gone either way, when a long arm coiled easily round his waist. The sudden shock would normally have had him at all action stations, but Sherlock's comforting pressure was familiar, and felt right.

Sherlock released him just as quickly as he had decided to make his presence known, and circled round John to the door.

"Are you going to stand on the street all day?" he asked, voice clean as steel, with just a touch of humour.

"Er... no." John stuttered in reply as he was dragged into the building.

Sherlock towed him up the stairs, giving a brief greeting to the old woman... Mrs. Hudson, before pushing the door open, and stepping in, dropping his grip on John's wrist.

He gave a curt smile, shedding his coat and scarf and throwing them over the back of a sofa. Cautiously, John divested himself of his warm coat, and hung it on a peg. He turned back to Sherlock and there were a few beats of silence.

It wasn't exactly a comfortable silence either. Awkward, full of questions which didn't dare to be asked, but desperately needed to be answered. Sherlock's grey eyes seemed to read him, no emotion slipping out from the silver orbs.

"Shall we sit?" Sherlock asked politely, not waiting for an answer and flinging himself into a chair.

John sat on the sofa, and they cautiously watched each other.

"Lestrade found the body." Sherlock said coolly.

_What happened to beating round the bush?_

"Oh."

"I put him off the scent. Told him it was an accident."

"It was!"

Sherlock raised a single, perfect, eyebrow.

"I think he would find that hard to believe." he said, twitching his lips.

John shrugged, relaxing slightly as the coldness in the room melted.

Sherlock shuffled around, still on edge.

"John, I wanted to talk about..." he trailed off.

John waited, contemplating the many subjects that line could lead to.

"About this, us, whatever it is." he said, waving his arms round.

John didn't need any more clarification. But the words he'd been wanting to say just evaporated, leaving him struggling for words.

"I... Well, I guess there's something... But it's... I'll give it a go... If..." John managed.

"Indeed. I am willing to try it too, but that depends on what 'it' is." Sherlock said easily, unnerving eyes not leaving John's face.

John faltered for a few moments, opening his mouth a few times with nothing coming out.

"What did you have in mind?" he croaked.

Anything to avoid making a choice, and actually voicing it to Sherlock. He knew what he wanted, but Sherlock could want something very different.

"I believe a relationship is generally the next step." Sherlock stated.

"Is that what you want?" John asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice.

"If a relationship means I can kiss you, take you out and see you whenever I like, then I suppose so." Sherlock said, the first sign of reticence appearing in the form of a cautious smile.

John smiled back, those words obliterating all the pain, fear, guilt, grief and anxiety from his thoughts. At the moment, the only thought in his mind was the realisation that Sherlock, the most beautiful man he'd ever seen, wanted him.

"Well?" Sherlock asked, a little impatiently.

"Yes. I want that." John said, his voice a little breathy.

Sherlock stared back at him, and time hung in that position for several long moments. Something was obviously hanging on the tip of the consulting detective's tongue, and probably for the first time, he was hanging back.

"I've never done relationships before." Sherlock said, scanning for John's reaction.

John didn't find himself that surprised. But very, very curious.

"Why me then?" he asked, a little nervously.

Of all the people that would have certainly been hounding Sherlock for his good looks and intelligence, why had the man picked him? The only words the John could think of to describe himself was 'past his prime'. And yet... And yet Sherlock had picked him.

Not that John was complaining. Not one bit. But Sherlock's motives were strange.

In answer to his question, Sherlock gave a roll of his shoulders.

"I couldn't say." he said, but there was a flash of something very much like unease in his eyes.

John nodded, watching Sherlock rise from his seat, and cross over. When they were facing each other, Sherlock bent slightly, and cupped John's face in his hands, grey eyes flickering over whatever he saw there.

A frown was floating on his forehead, and when he finally met John's eyes, his own were still unsure.

Then their lips collided as Sherlock bent forward, his eyes closing seconds before John's did. His hands stayed on either side of John's face, pulling him closer, and deeper into the kiss.

John moved his hands to Sherlock's lower back, shuffling forward and relishing the feel of Sherlock soft, plush lips on his.

Sherlock Holmes, probably the most eccentric and aloof man he'd met, was currently kissing him. What was more, he wanted to continue.

The slightly formal way of entering a 'relationship' made John smile. It was typically Sherlock. He loved the uncertainty in Sherlock's mouth, and his slightly shy movements. It was completely opposite to his normal persona.

Sherlock had dropped to his knees, giving John the advantage of hight which Sherlock had previously had. The detective still kept his hands on either side of John's face, pulling him down.

"Woo hoo!" came a voice.

The slight gasp of surprise came before they could pull away. Sherlock leapt back as if stung, standing and glowering at the door.

"I'm sorry boys!" Mrs. Hudson said, bustling into the room.

John flushed as she gave him a knowing smile, whilst setting down a tray of tea and biscuits.

"I thought you might like some snacks." she said, still smiling.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock said stiffly, still standing ramrod straight several paces from John.

She fondly patted his elbow, beamed at John, and left the room.

* * *

><p><strong>Right then. I'm sorry for the delay, but life got in the way. A new fic of mine is now up, for those who haven't alerted me. It's called Shattered Pieces, and the third chapter will soon be up (=<strong>

**And, I have finally decided to get a Tumblr account! I'll be using to for my fanfictions, so review replies will be going there. Check it out, as chapter 11 replies are up - poisonmistress(.)tumblr(.)com - The link is also on my profile.**


	13. Chapter 13

After Mrs. Hudson left, Sherlock and John exchanged looks. He could see a smile hanging on the corner of John's lips, and let an answering one pluck at his.

"Well..." and John burst out into a fit of giggles.

It was a wonderfully happy, free sound. It made Sherlock's smile broader, and a small laugh slipped through his own lips.

After John had recovered slightly, they just smiled at each other, John's eyes loosing a little of their mirth, and becoming serious, and at the same time, tender.

It was the kind of caring tenderness Sherlock had ever seen written on three peoples faces. Once upon a time, Mycroft. His mother, when he was very little. Both of those people had long since stopped showing their care. Then Mrs. Hudson.

On occasions when he got injured in some way, she would fuss. And though he didn't like it, he could see then that she really did care for him.

Not that he would have _really_ minded if she hated him. So many people disliked his ways, personality and talents. So one more would make no difference. But Mrs. Hudson was different, because she didn't mind. And he appreciated her love, and reciprocated it to a point.

But now John was giving him that look. He fidgeted slightly.

He felt confused about everything. And somehow sorting it by data didn't help.

He knew John liked and cared for him. And he felt the same way.

These were not platonic feeling, certainly. They were new, confusing and rather worrying.

He allowed his eyes to scan John's face, taking in the features he'd already memorised. Memorised perfectly, and found himself imagining.

If he didn't know better, he would have said he was falling in love.

But Sherlock Holmes didn't fall in love, did he?

He turned away from John, and sat back down, his stomach a churning mass of nerves and emotions.

"You alright?" John asked.

Sherlock met his gaze, trying to bring up _the_ question on his lips.

"Yes, fine." he said.

The question of questions. The answer of which would probably change both their lives.

_John, did you kill your last boyfriend?_

Even he realised it might not be the best thing to ask.

John said something about tea, and headed off, leaving Sherlock to think of his talk with Mycroft earlier.

* * *

><p><em>Several Hours Ago<em>

Sherlock glared at the door of Mycroft's office, tapping his foot nosily against the wooden floor. He knew his brother would be able to hear it from his room, and the knowledge gave him a small amount of satisfaction.

Trust Mycroft to insist he was busy for the moment. Trust Mycroft to make him wait half an hour in the hallway.

The bastard was probably just sitting there, making him sweat. But his dear brother was definitely going to be in for a shock. Even with his great deductive skills, Mycroft Holmes could never guess the reason of his visit.

The thought cheered Sherlock, and he managed to wait another five minutes, before getting bored, and banging loudly on the door.

"Mycroft! I need to talk to you." he barked.

There was a shuffling from inside the large, currently invisible room.

"Come in." came Mycroft's slightly haughty, austere voice.

Sherlock wrenched the door open, and stalked in.

"Brother mine, how lovely to see you." Mycroft said, face harder than granite.

Sherlock sat heavily in seat, and eyed his brother.

There was a carefully calculated three beats of silence, then Sherlock shifted and drew himself up a little. Mycroft's expression didn't change, but his fingers twitched. A habit which always alerted Sherlock as to his state of mind.

"I presume you know about my recent activities." Sherlock stated coolly.

The first crack showed in the form a slightly cynical smile.

"Yes. I have been made aware of your recent... escapades. I must admit I was surprised you undertook such a course of action."

It was always like this with Mycroft. Always a game of cat and mouse. Each trying to gain the upper ground, without risking anything. He hated it.

"That's none of your business." snapped Sherlock.

"So why are you here?" asked Mycroft.

"How much do you know about him?"

"Oh, so you're serious are you?"

"How much do you know?" Sherlock demanded.

"I believed it to be just a passing fancy, so very little. You have probably deduced as much."

"I need to know whether he killed Winster."

"I am not all seeing Sherlock." Mycroft snapped.

"You should have a pretty good idea though." Sherlock retorted.

"Which one of us is the detective? This is not my area Sherlock."

Sherlock drew a breath, wincing as he played his final card.

"Just give me your opinion. Advice."

Mycroft hesitated.

"Fine. But you owe me Sherlock, understood?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied tersely.

"Fine. It seems very unlikely that John didn't do it. Winster had no enemies, except his ex-boyfriend, and was not in any more debt than your average drinker. I could find no drug connections, or criminal ones. All the evidence points to Watson."

Sherlock nodded, keeping his face carefully under control. He knew it was stupid. Ridiculous that he should feel so... disappointed. He'd known every moment he'd been with John that there was a high chance that he really had killed Adam. But to hear it from his brother somehow made it even more final.

"I am sorry." Mycroft said, and maybe there was a hint of emotion in his voice.

"Text me the case." Sherlock snapped, standing.

He was at the door when Mycroft called out.

"Sherlock, be careful." he said.

Sherlock didn't have to be a genius to guess what Mycroft was talking about.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?"<p>

John was smiling at him, slight uneasiness in his eyes. To look at him, it seemed impossible that John would, or could actually hurt him.

He took the cup of tea offered to him, and returned the smile.

"What were you thinking about?" John asked, sitting down beside him, delightfully close.

Sherlock hesitated a second.

"My brother."

"Oh? I suppose I never thought about you having family." John said.

"Yes, I do regretfully."

John smiled. It was the smile Sherlock had decided lit up the room, not that he would ever, ever disclose that thought to anybody.

He quickly kissed John, tasting the tea on his lips, then sat back, taking three huge gulps of his own tea to hide his embarrassment. John's smile grew even wider, and they surveyed each other for a moment.

A ping interrupted the comfortable silence. Sherlock dexterously pulled his mobile from under a cushion, and with a scowl examined the text.

Apparently Mycroft had decided to cash in his IOU. It was a fairly boring case. A murder. Apparently Lestrade was on the crime scene.

He stood, absently setting his tea on the coffee table.

"What?" John asked.

"A case. I promised Mycroft I'd do it." Sherlock sighed.

He swiped the half full mug from John's hands, and set it down beside his own.

"Come on." he snapped.

John shut his mouth on all the questions which would undoubtedly be there, and followed quietly.

* * *

><p><strong>There! Sorry for the delay. I hope Mycroft was okay. Reviews would be absolutely fantastically amazingly great!<strong>

**Last chapter reviews -** poisonmistress(.)tumblr(.)com****


	14. Chapter 14

Only when John had been all put thrust into the cab, and Sherlock had barked out an address did John manage to get his wits together.

"What's going on?" he asked mildly.

"Mycroft's told me to do a case." Sherlock replied, a definite air of sulkiness to his voice.

"Mycroft?"

"My brother."

"Oh. Right," John said, hesitating before asking his next question. "Why am I coming?"

Sherlock gave a rare smile.

"Because you are." he said as if it were obvious.

For a split second, his face was as open as a book, and the expression which pushed its way to the surface was unbelievably vulnerable. It was removed with seconds however. If it had been anybody else, John wouldn't have doubted his eyes. But with Sherlock... it was impossible to imagine him looking quite like he had for that split second.

"And... What's the case?"

Excitement glowed from pale, slate grey eyes.

"Murder." was the ever so slightly morbid reply.

Well, it was morbid because of the way Sherlock said it. With excitement, longing, and absolutely no sorrow for the violent death of another human being.

John waited for more details, but Sherlock apparently seemed lost in a haze of thought.

"Anything else?" John queried, nudging his partner in the side.

Sherlock gave him a flushed, purely gleeful look.

"I don't know much. Male, strangled in his house. Girlfriend found him twenty four hours later. He's one of Mycroft's men. Lestrade's already there."

Way to much information for John to process at the same time.

"Mycroft's men? Lestarde's there? There's no way he'll let me in."

"Mycroft is the government, he made me take this case on. And Lestrade will if I tell him too."

John smiled slightly at this assurance.

"Your brother is the government?" he asked, the first sentence dawning on him.

"Basically. I owed him a favour." Sherlock said, a little disdainfully.

John didn't pry any further. But he didn't need to be a genius to see Sherlock's relationship with his brother was not exactly perfection personified.

It was ten minutes of silence later that the cab pulled up, and they jumped out. A house on the end was plastered in crime scene tap, and swarming with officers. Sherlock sighed, then drew himself up.

He seemed about to stalk over in the direction of the crime, when he stopped. With a little hesitation he turned to John.

The ex-army doctor raised an eyebrow.

"Do you... How do you feel about the yarders knowing?" he asked.

John started, mainly surprised that Sherlock hadn't simply decided through his deductions.

"Well... I don't really know them... but I suppose it's your choice..." he mumbled.

The fear that everybody would think he was only trying to get close to Sherlock was his main thought. He was rapidly falling head of heels for the man, and if people were going to know, he needed them to realise it was serious.

Sherlock cocked his head. His lips twitching in _that_ way.

"You shouldn't care what they think. I know, you know. Nobody else matters." he said softly.

Maybe it had been a shot in the dark, but it struck close to whatever target Sherlock had been hoping to hit. John nodded once, reaching up for a brief kiss.

He barely pressed his lips against Sherlock's before pulling away. He knew Sherlock wanted to get on, and he wasn't going to stop him.

Sherlock gave his arm an awkward pat, then bounded off, coat flapping round his knees. John hurried after him. When they were within twenty metres of the tainted house, Sherlock stopped.

"I'll take care of everything." he said calmly.

John nodded. It was obvious Sherlock had some kind of plan, and he was perfectly happy to let Sherlock carry it out. Despite Sherlock's comforting words, he still had lingering worries. He'd always cared a lot about what people thought of him, not obsessively, but enough to stop doing things on the odd occasion.

Now he was about to break that unacknowledged rule.

Sherlock strode over, and was apprehended by Sgt. Donovan. John recognised her from when the little gang of police had been searching his old flat.

"Donovan." Sherlock called crisply.

Sally looked over, her facial expression changing to annoyance.

"Freak. I'm awfully sorry, but you don't have an invite." she sneered, lips contorting to form the snide words.

"Incorrect. I think you'll find a person in high places has requested my presence." Sherlock counted, like a professional tennis player serving the final shot of a match.

"Sherlock! Hey, I've been expecting you!" Lestrade yelled from somewhere.

John could vaguely remember him too. He had been nice.

Sherlock shot Sally a triumphant look, and ducked under the tape. He courteously held it up John so he didn't have to stoop too much.

Donovan was staring at him with something very akin to gob smacked shock.

"No guests on crime scenes!" she managed in a moment, glaring at Sherlock he'd committed a deadly sin.

"He's not a guest." Sherlock snapped, stepping protectively over to John's side in a moment.

John stayed mute as they eye balled each other.

"Ask Lestarde if your pet's got an invite." she sneered finally, trumped by the cold grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called imperiously, with much of the airs of a prince summoning his carriage.

Lestrade ambled over, his good natured look dropped on sight of John. Unlike Donovan, he recognised him.

"Sherlock?" he questioned quietly, but with a seriousness ill hidden under his voice.

John swallowed, and resisted the urge to run for his life.

"He's with me." Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade was obviously not going to give in that easily.

"Sherlock, I can absolutely not have a criminal suspect on my crime scene." he snapped, all pretence of patience falling do the ground like a hundred tonne rock.

"He's not a criminal!" Sherlock growled, exposing far to much with those insecure words.

Lestrade finally looked over to John, pursing his lips.

"I can't, Sherlock. Simple as that."

"Why?" asked Sherlock, still looming over John.

"He's the main suspect in a murder case, and whatever your reason for bringing him is, it's not good enough."

Sherlock took a restraining sigh. Lestrade took another look at John, apparently wondering for the first time why he was actually there.

"Why did you bring him anyway?" he asked.

John frowned, shifting slightly. Being talked about like you weren't there was not pleasant. Especially when they were talking about you like you were a criminal. He supposed in Lestrade's eyes, he was. It wasn't a comforting thought.

"To reform him." Sherlock sneered.

It took Lestrade a moment too long to realise Sherlock was being sarcastic.

"Ha, very funny. You can come in Sherlock, but not him."

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a moment.

"I'm not helping you then." he announced.

"Bloody hell Sherlock! After you g-" Lestrade snapped, interrupted by the ding of his phone.

He pulled it out, and read the new text message.

"Fine." he said dully, stuffing the item away, and eyeing both John with a different kind of suspicion.

Sherlock smiled brightly, and led John toward the house without touching him.

Lestrade trailed behind them, the flummoxed look on his face remaining. John couldn't help feel a twinge of unease as he glanced back at that generally good-natured face.

* * *

><p><strong>Right, I'm sorry for the long wait. More from Sherlock's POV later :p<strong>

**Reviews for the last chapter will be up later on tumblr.**


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